


some other arms

by sionnacha



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Mikasa Ackerman, Eren dies btw thats hardly a spoiler, Eventual Romance, F/F, Manga Spoilers, Multi, Pining, Post-Canon, a lil bit of porn at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19852642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sionnacha/pseuds/sionnacha
Summary: Her shoulders drop, suddenly empty with feeling. The sight sparks something else in Mikasa; she doesn’t think its jealousy, perhaps it is something more akin to sadness or loneliness. She watches as Niccolo twines his hands with Sasha’s, how Eren is playing with the ends of Armin’s golden hair – and wishes that it was her.She heaves a sigh, marred with discontent and bitterness, raising the rifle once again with haste and falling back into her usual posture for shooting. Desperately, she pushes down all the nonsensical thought and feelings bubbling up within her, quick to quash the intensity of them before they morph into something else. She clenches her teeth and aims down the sights, and fires.Direct hit.Mikasa wants and longs for people that she cannot have.





	some other arms

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i am not dead and here is something that isn't porn? wow.
> 
> anyway... big thank u to don't delete the kisses by wolf alice for this one. also title is from benjamin francis leftwitch.
> 
> hehe

_i._

On that day, at the first sight of the ocean, things had begun to erode around them – the rocks on the cliff-face shattered and collapsed against the waves, her and Armin’s friendship with Eren, forever changed by an abrupt twist of fate. Though it had been a dream that he and Eren had shared for so many years, Eren was more pre-occupied with what was beyond the precipice of the horizon, with the people, far off and far away that would one day want them all dead.

Later on, it had rained and stormed, and yet, Eren kept staring out and Armin had watched, a small seashell in his hand, thumbing the ridges and spikes with gentle, thoughtful consideration. Armin’s eyes had lit up at the realisation that it was in fact the shell for a type of crab that he had read about in his old tomes – and he had raced to show both her and Eren.

Perhaps Eren didn’t care that much, maybe in the moment he was thinking about other things, but she recalls him looking to the shell, and then back at a gleeful Armin – and then, a forced smile. An excited Armin had chattered back then; pouring out all his racing thoughts at a boy who was trying with all his heart to feign interest.

Later on, she takes a walk down to the sea – before she had been frightened of the salt and waves – but sitting on the sand, she realises that it could be a peaceful place when the wind finally tempered itself. The storm had passed and there were an infinite amount of stars in the sky. Maybe one day Armin would even like to go that far, if possible, before the titan curse claimed him.

When she returns to her tent everyone else is asleep. Armin and Eren are sound asleep; the brown haired boy clinging to Armin – hands around his middle, the youngest of the three holding the seashell to his chest. Maybe Eren doesn’t notice her as she waits at the flap of the tent, but he awakens, an arm unfurling from around Armin to reach up brush a stray flaxen hair up over the tip of his ear, and she doesn’t miss the small telling smile the creeps onto his face, and the way his startlingly green eyes sweep over the blonde’s face.

There’s a pang of pain then, of jealousy, but what she feels is mostly relief: relief that they are both safe and that they’re happy (or at least, that Armin is happy).

But she swallows, mouth dry, and crosses the threshold of the tent’s flap and takes her place down on the bedding roll on Eren’s other side. The sound of soft breathing fills the space, if she listens hard enough, she can hear the waves against the stone and salt. That is enough to send her off to sleep.

_ii._

At the shooting range, Mikasa watches Eren aim down the sights of their newly issued rifles. They’re sturdy and slightly heavier than the ones they used before; borne from stolen Marlyean technology and crafted by the volunteers where they are interned. A shot goes off and she hears Eren hiss a curse, which causes Sasha to slap her knee with glee at his crap shooting, honking a laugh as the boy frustratedly unloads the weapon and hastily passes it back to Sasha.“Ah, you’ll get better Eren.”

Eren smiles wearily, eyes suddenly drawn to where Armin is with Jean, just behind them, and decides to leave the two women, much to Mikasa’s chagrin. “You wanna go? I can show ye how to get a good shot.”

“I can already get a good shot.”

Sasha scoffs at her and sweeps her hair away from her face; matted to her skin with sweat in the humid weather amber eyes gloaming fiercely. She begins loading the rifle again and checking the safety switch. “Yer good M’kasa, one of the best, but you’re an 8 outta 10 shooter.”

Sasha grins widely – Mikasa finds herself perplexed at how the soft sun makes her freckled skin glow and eyes gleam, swirling golden when they finally lock with her own dark ones. She flushes, heat spreading over her cheeks, and up her neck, then something unexplainable begins to rise and flow up into her chest as Sasha holds out the rifle and chatters animatedly at her.

This unexplainable feeling had occurred plenty of times before, maybe it was just unexplainable because she hadn’t wanted to give it a name, because it always conjured up when she was with Sasha. It was not unlike what she felt for Eren–that growing warmth, seeking to be wanted and acknowledged – Sasha would laugh, and that very similar warmth would slither through her, slowly simmering until she couldn’t resist a smile. She would find herself going out of her way to spend time with Sasha – time spent like this at the shooting range, or, doing mundane things such as picking vegetables with her at the market, or at the small plot that they shared with each other.

“Fine,” she blurts, face mottled red with the realisation beginning to finally sink in. She gets up to shrug off her jacket – the heat finally becoming a bit too oppressive, even though she had sworn that the air was finally cooling – sweat had begun to congeal around her neckline and she suspected that maybe it had nothing to do with the heat. Sasha chuckles at her, hopping off the bale of hay and handing her the now fully loaded rifle.

They stand about 80 feet away from a target – a badly put together scarecrow that had been plastered with red paint. Mikasa raises the rifles and becomes all too aware of how close Sasha is behind her – she can feel her breath on her bare neck, and her hands coming to a rest on her shoulder blades, trying her best not to shiver as Sasha traverses the musculature of her back, making short clinical movements to correct her posture. She finds herself unable to tell if she’s doing it on purpose or not, not even sure if she even really minded. Maybe she’d like Sasha to keep going.

“Like this,” her hands slide over the tops of her shoulders and down her upper arms, before finding a place for them around her elbow. Mikasa follows her instructions, feeling Sasha’s firm but gentle digits press into her, urging her to raise her elbows. “Whenever yer ready.”

Mikasa inhales – shaking ever so slightly as she aims down the sights of the weapon, extremely aware that Sasha is watching her very closely, that her eyes are trained on her as she straightens her back. As the trigger is about to be pulled, Sasha’s name is called, and Mikasa’s concentration is now broken.

Both women turn in unison and both spot Niccolo stood with Eren, Armin and Jean, waving excitedly at Sasha, a massive bouquet of flowers in his arms. Sasha takes off before Mikasa can even protest – the woman racing over to their friends and getting bundled up in Niccolo’s arms as he plants a kiss on her cheek, putting her down to speak to scouts, Eren and Armin stood close together, the former’s arm draped over his friend’s shoulder.

Her shoulders drop, suddenly empty with feeling. The sight sparks something else in Mikasa; she doesn’t think its jealousy, perhaps it is something more akin to sadness or loneliness. She watches as Niccolo twines his hands with Sasha’s, how Eren is playing with the ends of Armin’s golden hair – and wishes that it was her.

She heaves a sigh, marred with discontent and bitterness, raising the rifle once again with haste and falling back into her usual posture for shooting. Desperately, she pushes down all the nonsensical thought and feelings bubbling up within her, quick to quash the intensity of them before they morph into something else. She clenches her teeth and aims down the sights, and fires.

Direct hit.

_iii._

It was unknown to her when it occurred – this feeling about Eren, the knowledge that one day Eren was going to outgrow her, and was going to outgrow everyone around her, whether she liked it or not. Eren was unstoppable, constantly thinking and moving, wanting to know what was next – unwilling to wait in fear of stagnation. That in Eren, there was a festering sense of death, and that he carried it in him.

It did not take long for him to outgrow her, at all.

By the time they had ventured far beyond the walls, Armin too, had also been outgrown by Eren. Perhaps he had outgrown them all before she had even realised, long before they had ever reached the sea. It was only in Liberio, when Eren had collapsed a building of civilians, that he had jumped into a crowd of military types, which it has all made sense in her mind.

Eren did not last the year. He had died, in the name of protecting them, a death she had a hand in – and it made her sick to think of it – eyes furious with putrid anger and overwhelmed with a sadness that was so far beyond her, that she couldn’t even comprehend it. The blade was pushed through the nape of his neck whilst he roared with agony.

The nights afterwards were difficult; spent tossing and turning in a makeshift refugee centre for displaced civilians, lying in a cot, sweat pooling around her neck, tears spilling down her cheeks into her matted hair – every time she closed her eyes she saw Eren, a vision of him smiling and blushing, taking her up in a hug alongside Armin – but then she saw him coated in reds that were not his.

It was enough to deter her from any sleeping at all.

Eventually Mikasa was moved back to Mitras to be commended by Historia herself. It was hardly a commendation – Historia looked heartbroken, hands shaking as she placed a bolo tie around Mikasa’s neck, the black haired woman shivering as she pressed a kiss to the no-longer-pregnant Queen’s hand.

Many Scouts had died. Levi was indefinitely out of action, injured in an explosion that which he would not divulge the details of.

She had found Louise crushed under rubble and thought that it should’ve been her; maybe if she discouraged her then she wouldn’t be delivering the news of her death to her mother in Trost, wouldn’t have to console the woman who’s daughter she had inspired.

Once the fanfare and grief had petered out, things went quiet. Mikasa had the peace she had always wanted, but at a cost that was decidedly not worth it.

-

She finds comfort in the most unexpected of places: with Historia, at her farm.

The idea had come from Levi initially; he told her that it would be good to seek something beyond the military. So, she did.

Historia is glad to have her there and the help is greatly appreciated; she has a firm hand on what happens at the orphanage – oversees all the children and helps care for them, but at times it is a bit much. There have been new arrivals since the war ended – young and displaced children without a place to go.

Days and weeks pass, and Mikasa begins to feel more and more at home; she awakens early and readies the farm with other farmhands, raises the children from their beds and helps them prepare for the day, plays with them, rides horse-back with them – she had once envisioned having a family with Eren and it being the picture of domestic bliss, but she supposed that this was a happy alternative.

She finds Historia watching her one morning with the children – looking tired and worn out, but with the tiniest hints of a smile making the corners of her lips turn up. She’s leaning against the door of the horse-shed as Mikasa helps a boy up onto the back of a pony, and feels her cheeks warm when the Queen gives her the tiniest of waves in acknowledgement.

One night, Historia confides that it’s all becoming so difficult, that she’s not sure what to do anymore, and caring for her own child has become a struggle in itself. It’s impulsive on Mikasa’s behalf, but she takes the woman into her chest – strong arms fastening around her torso as the Queen clutches at her upper arms, fingers grasping at the fabric of her cardigan, neck buried in the crook of her neck as she gently inhales and exhales. She rasps a quiet thank you as she draws away, fingers still twisted in Mikasa’s sleeves, eyes bleary and red from tiredness.

The nights where they confide to each other become far more regular, they had far more in common than they had ever realised. Loves, people that they cared for, lost to destinies that had been bestowed upon them, people taken from them by the world’s cruel nature. Two women, bound to nobility, sharing a burden that was unique to both of them.

-

The pair lie in the grass on a humid evening – the sun finally beginning to set, the long shadow of the mountains in the distance being cast over the landscape. Mikasa twists her head and takes in the sight of blonde’s profile; long hair meshed with the grass, gold and orange painting her features – the colours prolonging the sadness in her blues, their quiet chatter, finally gone silent.

A few weeks ago, Mikasa had caught Historia staring at her from the porch as she went for a morning jog – had seen how her eyes lingered on her form and could still feel her gaze, even by the time she had passed the gates of the ranch, and the incident had stuck with her.

There had been other less subtle moments where it was becoming apparent that something was blossoming within the Queen. One evening, when they were drinking rice wine from Hizuru, Historia had slipped her soft, delicate hands into Mikasa’s as they watched the sun set. At the time, Mikasa did not think much of it – they were talking about everything that had been, and what was going to be – that in all things there was so much uncertainty. Mikasa squeezed back and how could she not, watching as tears slipped down Historia’s cheeks, watching as Historia brought her hand to his lips and kissed Mikasa’s bruised knuckles, smearing wet and salt over the backs of them.

Thinking back, she realises that the unexplainable feeling had begun to bubble – that a warmth was manifesting in her chest, that neediness was settling itself into her bones. She blushes at the thought of the Queen wanting her, having a crush on her, having any sort of real affection for her. Perhaps Historia just needed her – maybe she wanted to be needed, too.

She hadn’t been paying attention to Historia as she lay there, thinking about the woman who had begun wordlessly shuffling towards her, until they were side by side. A graceful hand slips up the side of Mikasa’s face and brushes her long dark hair out of her eyes. The Queen is above her, face unreadable, golden strands pushed up over her ears.

It doesn’t cross her mind to protest, nor does she want to – Historia’s hand slips into her black tresses and combs her fingers through them, feeling how soft and luxurious it is to the touch. Their eyes meet as Historia’s nails drag softly against the Mikasa’s cheek, thumb running over a jagged scar, then over her lips, perching then on her chin. It’s a quiet request, and Mikasa obliges as she props herself up.

The sensation of Historia’s hand at the curve of her neck makes her shiver, and she is increasingly aware that her heart has already broken into some unstoppable rhythm. She cranes her neck, feeling the warmth in her chest boil as Historia presses her lips to hers.

The feeling of letting it happen is cathartic – she doesn’t know what to do or what to say, all she knows is that she’s gasping into Historia’s mouth, that noises she never knew she was capable of making were being coaxed out of her – but it all feels right, even more so when Historia’s weight settles on top of her, when her hands tangle in her hair, when they rest on her shoulders, when Historia’s teeth scrape against the column of her neck.

-

“Do you miss him?”

The question is rather sudden, but Mikasa doesn’t mind answering.

“All the time,” she replies, taking Historia’s hand in hers as they walk back towards the farm house. They had spent the last thirty minutes laying in the grass kissing – a practice that was new to Mikasa and one that she hoped that she would get to do again for as long as Historia wanted.

Historia hums and clasps Mikasa’s hand tighter in her own, making a shiver run through the dark haired woman. “I miss Ymir, too.”

Mikasa squeezes back a bit harder. “I know.”

They continue on the dirt track back to the ranch – a slight breeze picking up, rustling the trees and grass around them, the dust swirling around their heels. The lights in the farmhouse guiding them back safely as the weather begins to turn.

They sleep in the same bed that night.

Mikasa slips on a large men’s sleep-shirt and gets under the covers where Historia is already beneath and turns on her side to look at the other woman. She lies there awake, taking in Mikasa, taking in how her obsidian hair pools around her shoulders. It comes as a surprise to Mikasa when she feels her own body begin to move; shuffling closer to Historia until she can feel the blonde woman’s breath on her lips.

She kisses her and Historia’s eyelids flutter shut, moving to crowd in on her, fingers digging into the flesh of the her jaw as their lips move against each other, as she feels Historia’s teeth with her tongue.

There’s a sigh when they eventually part, Mikasa’s nose grazing against Historia’s, their tired eyes meeting and Mikasa finding nothing but the colours of the sea in her blues. She eventually turns over in Mikasa’s arms, settling back into the sturdy warmth and weight of her body, tucking herself into the safety of Mikasa’s grasp. When Historia is asleep, Mikasa lies awake, taking in everything that has transpired. In some way, this is what she wanted – it is not Eren or Sasha in her arms, but someone else entirely, and she is neither sad nor disappointed.

In the morning, Historia kisses her awake – slipping off her own nightdress and straddling Mikasa’s waist, grinding her hips forward and back on the raven’s fingers until she reaches her climax, letting herself be caught as she falls forward, Mikasa licking into her mouth languorously as she feels herself unfurl against Historia’s smaller, slimmer appendages.

It suddenly occurs to Mikasa then that the burning, unexplainable feeling, actually is far more explainable that she ever thought it to be.

She doesn’t want to stop feeling it.

**Author's Note:**

> this was initially some super long, political heavy mikahisu nightmare but somewhere along the way it died and this what was reborn from the ashes. it's kinda messy, but hey i hope that some of you like it.
> 
> this was basically a revived wip and honestly i just wanted to kill it again so i finished it and it's ??????? i don't know.
> 
> also pls leave comments i love those lil guys
> 
> xo


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